by Dora Machado
“Welcome, Lord of Laonia.” The caretaker granted him entrance. “Your offering awaits.”
A gilded cage with two white eagles rested on an immaculate white table. The eagles’ claws were tied together with golden ropes. Their beaks were similarly bound shut. Bren propped opened the top of the cage and examined the animals, finding no signs of disease, no lesions or imperfections.
“These will do,” he said, “but I see only two offerings instead of three.”
The caretaker flashed an uneasy smile. “My apologies, my lord. Pious Eligious informs me your token consisted of three gold coins.”
“Yes?”
“A gold coin for your keeping, a gold coin for your guest’s keeping, and a gold coin for your offerings,” the caretaker said. “I’m afraid these sacred eagles are … how should I put this? Expensive? You could only afford two.”
Bren had to make a supreme effort not to strangle the man on the spot. By the look on his face, the caretaker believed he was very capable of just such murder. A gold coin was an outrageous charge for three days. For the price Eligious was asking, he could’ve bought a flock of sacred eagles in any other temple.
He had to remind himself that Eligious, not the caretaker, was responsible for this latest insult. If Bren couldn’t afford his offering, sanctuary could be rescinded. Jacking up the offerings’ price was the easiest way to do this.
Bren was sure Eligious would have never dared to harass another highborn like this. The Pious smelled weakness, anticipating Bren’s demise and Laonia’s fall. How long before the temples and the other highborn openly turned against him?
“The gods require blood for the offering,” Bren said. “Am I right?”
“Indeed, my lord,” the caretaker said.
“Then they shall have it.”
“The gods don’t share well, my lord. Three offerings from two beasts won’t fulfill the code’s terms.”
“We’ll see about that.” Bren snatched a white robe from the caretaker and donned it quickly. “Take me to the hall.”
The man found no courage to deny Bren’s glare. He pointed the way and, carrying the eagles’ cage, followed on his heels like a tame dog.
The tall, open air vestibule was a round chamber with solid white walls adorned with the stylized etchings of the land’s highborn seals. Bren’s eyes scoured the seals until he found the one for the house of Uras. He placed four fingers on the etching and said a quick prayer asking the gods for a blessing on his house. It was an ancient, customary prayer, most likely useless when it came to cursed men, but he said it anyway. Then he pressed the ring he wore around his neck against the slot centered in the seal.
The entire wall rotated and shifted, opening up into the high temple’s circle. Pristine alabaster walls and floors comprised the chamber. A set of three stairs led to a crescent-shaped dais curved against the chamber’s southern orientation. The facades of three elaborate shrines rose on the dais, one in the middle, the other two at either end.
“You may call the witnesses,” Bren said.
The caretaker hesitated. “But my lord—”
“Call them.”
Resigned, the caretaker pulled on a discreet lever, which opened a door. Three Ascended stepped through the threshold and took their places at the foot of the dais. One of them offered Bren the ceremonial weapon. Although he wasn’t in the mood for ceremonies, Bren had no choice but to accept the dagger.
The first eagle was a bird in its prime, a magnificent creature with an astounding wing span. He petted the beast, admiring it. Why did the gods crave the best in beauty and grace? And why did he have to do the killing?
No answers and no way around it.
He grabbed the eagle by the ropes binding it and, flinging it violently through the air, slammed it against the silver grille inlaid on the gleaming stone floor before the first shrine’s threshold.
“Heed me, Onisius, husband of Suriek, father to her children, brother to her fate,” he recited the old prayer. “To you I’ve come to offer in the ancient way of the pledge, may you favor the house of Uras with your strength.”
Bren held down the stunned bird with a knee and, stretching out the eagle’s feathered neck, brought down the dagger and sliced off the head.
The dagger’s edges were sharpened to perfection. The blade cut through feathers, skin and bone. A spurt of warm blood splashed on Bren’s face and stained his robe. The rest spilled on the scrolled silver grille, from where it trickled into the little tray.
Bren grabbed the second eagle and moved on to the shrine at the opposite end of the dais. The animal pecked at his hand, drawing blood, a desperate, useless attempt to defend itself. With concise, efficient motions, Bren repeated the brutal ritual, secretly hoping that the blow had killed the splendid beast before the blade struck.
“Heed me, Ronerus, lover of Suriek, father to her bastards, brother to her soul. To you I’ve come to offer in the ancient way of the pledge, may you favor Laonia with your cunning.”
When he was done draining the second eagle, he moved on to the center shrine. The air smelled of blood and animal fear. His sweat’s acrid scent added to the mix, the stink of the faithless.
“He has nothing more to offer,” one of the Ascended whispered.
“The fool,” another one said. “What a waste of precious eagles.”
“Wait,” the third witness said. “What’s he doing?”
Bren took a knee before Suriek’s magnificent shrine. He rolled up his sleeve and, stretching out his arm, located the thickest vein in the crook of his elbow. Making a fist, he pressed the point of the dagger against his skin and punctured through it. A crimson blot swelled around the knife. He pressed harder, until the blood trickled from the puncture, dribbling down his forearm and dripping from his fingers.
“Highborn blood, favorite of the gods,” he said to the witnesses. “Let me know when you’ve judged it enough.”
He flexed his hand, opening and closing his fist, forcing the flow, steeling himself for the wait. The bloody Goddess and her witnesses wouldn’t be easily satisfied.
“Heed me, Suriek, Onisious’s wife, Ronerus’s lover, mother to your offspring, pillar to our world. To you I’ve come to offer in the ancient way of the pledge. May you favor my life with your passion.”
The puncture wound on Bren’s arm throbbed. His head felt faint, his eyesight blurred, his body chilled, but he was at ease. There was no madness in the bloodletting, no terrible suffering. Bleeding a life away was a peaceful way to die. The moment lengthened without dimension.
“Enough.” The witness’ voice came from far away. “You can stop now.”
“Enough!” Someone’s hand landed on his shoulder and shook him hard.
“Has the offering been fulfilled?” Bren asked.
“Suriek has had enough,” the Ascended said.
Bren didn’t know how much time had passed, but blood drenched his arm and overflowed from Suriek’s silver tray. He had wagered on the questionable odds that Eligious wouldn’t risk losing Laonia’s tribute by allowing Bren to die while he was in sanctuary. He had further assumed that the Pious would not want to taint the temple with a highborn death.
His wagers were hardly safe these days.
For an instant, he considered offering the rest of his blood to Suriek. It was a self-indulgent way to end his life and better than the alternative. Then he thought of Laonia, lost to Riva; of the fates of Hato, the Twenty and the house of Uras. A new concern added to his worries. He couldn’t abandon Lusielle to fend for herself, not even if her fate at the Pious’s hands might be kinder than her fate with him.
He ripped off the edge of his robe and holding an end between his teeth, tightened the makeshift bandage around his arm until the bleeding began to slow down. His head ached. His legs trembled when he rose. His steps wavered as he opened the gridiron gate and entered Suriek’s perfumed shrine.
“Where are you going?” the caretaker said.
“Tell El
igious that the offering has been fulfilled.” Bren shut the gate, staring down the caretaker through the door’s scrolled grate. “I claim my time with Suriek.”
“It is your right.” The caretaker bowed. “I’ll be outside if you need me, my lord.” He withdrew from the chamber, followed by the murmuring witnesses.
Bren was glad to see them gone. He leaned against the door until the world stopped spinning and his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering light of the candles illuminating Suriek’s sumptuous shrine. Reflecting the light, the bejeweled eyes of thousands of animal figurines glimmered around him, Suriek’s gifting creatures.
The precious menagerie sat on mirrored shelves set against mirrored walls, keeping Suriek company through the centuries, an army of common and exotic beasts, guarding the fierce Goddess from the people she had spawned.
Bren made his way to the corner, where among the gleaming tiles, a small fountain trickled as if murmuring the Goddess’s praises. He braced himself on the basin and faced his reflection, the eyes of a famished beast, the face of a murderous monster, the grimness that had become his only expression, and death, stalking his hollow stare.
Dipping his hands in the water, he scattered the foul image. Soon, but not yet. He drank a little, then washed the blood from his hands, neck and face before confronting his host.
“Hello, Suriek,” he said. “I bet you didn’t think you’d ever see me again.”
A life-sized, alabaster likeness of the Goddess sat on a cushioned throne facing him. Shoulders straight, ankles crossed, hands lying upon each other demurely on her lap, she was serenity’s embodiment. Bren’s weapons, including his knife and the house of Uras’s sword, lay at her feet. The candlelight sparkled on the Goddess’s golden robes. A load of jeweled necklaces dangled from her long neck, the gifts of the land’s wealthiest nobles. Bren could no longer afford such extravagant gifts and yet he still hoped for Suriek’s favor.
He approached the Goddess’s likeness. Beautiful flowers crafted from precious foils adorned her hair’s sculpted waves and framed her exquisite features. Elegantly slanted eyes sparkled with wit and vaulted eyebrows expressed praise or scolding, Bren couldn’t decide which.
The Goddess’s beauty was only marred by her despoilment. Above her chiseled chin, her mouth was broken and her lips were crushed, an ancient injury, an offense, a punishment and an act of justice. According to The Tale, it was also an act of self-mutilation, committed by the Goddess before she turned to stone, to prevent herself from ever again uttering the words that set off such virulent battles between her children.
Bren closed his eyes and caressed the Goddess’s cool face, yearning for all he couldn’t have. The stone was harsh to his fingers. Suriek offered no consolation. She who had seeded the world had no compassion for mankind. Her soul was surely made out of ice.
He held the Goddess’s rigid right hand and smiled in the darkness. He expected nothing from her, except perhaps what his line had secured through thousands of years of service to the Goddess.
His fingers found the row of bracelets chiseled around the Goddess’s delicate wrists, one for each of the land’s highborn houses. He counted to the seventh bracelet, where a set of masterfully cut emeralds were inlaid into the carved alabaster to shape a miniature landscape of the Laonian steppes. The bracelet twisted seven times beneath his grasp. The throne where the Goddess sat slid forward.
And there, behind the throne, Bren found what he needed—a dark opening and a chance.
Chapter Eighteen
LUSIELLE HAD JUST FINISHED WASHING WHEN somebody knocked on the door. She rushed to put on a green woolen dress over the saffron shift she had donned, tugging on the side panels’ braided laces to adjust the fit. A pair of new boots fit a little loose but proved comfortable. She pleated her hair on the way to answer the door.
An Ascended stood at the threshold. His blond braid hung down to his ankles, a whole measure longer than the Pious’s. The pockmarked face of a plague’s survivor dominated his features, but a pair of sparkling brown eyes and an engaging smile revealed he was more than a scarred soul.
“I’m Vestorius,” he said. “My friends call me Vestor.”
“I’m Lusielle.”
“I’ve heard. I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of time to chat. The Pious would like to see you right away.”
“My lord gave me strict orders. He told me not to leave the room without him.”
“Sound advice, I suppose, but the Pious rules here.” He motioned to the door. “Obedience is the way of the temples.”
Left with no choice, Lusielle went with the Ascended. She didn’t think she could refuse the Pious without creating more trouble. Besides, Lusielle had a question she wanted to ask the Pious. She didn’t know exactly how she would ask it yet, but she was determined to do so.
Vestor led her down the stairs to an alleyway running behind the middle wall. “I imagine you’d want to go to the store first, to choose your wares.”
“My wares?”
“The Pious has decided to take you up on the offer you made earlier.”
“The Pious wants me—a baseborn and a stranger—to mix him a cure? No offense, but I don’t believe you.”
“I suggested that the Pious try your cures.”
“Why?”
“You look competent.”
“Let me try: You’re the Pious’s healer and you haven’t been able to bring him relief.”
Vestor shrugged. “I told the Pious you were worth the chance.”
“And he agreed?”
“I was surprised too,” Vestor said. “On the other hand, the Pious doesn’t want anyone other than you and me to know that he’s sick or that he’s tried one of your remedies.”
“He has a boil, doesn’t he?”
“More like the mother of all carbuncles.”
“What color is it?”
“Red, with purple overtones.”
“Has it developed white or yellow points?”
“That seems to be the problem,” Vestor said. “It hasn’t.”
“I see.” Lusielle considered the man walking beside her. “Your braid is very long.”
“It’s thirty-two years in the growing.”
“How long have you been with the Pious?”
“I came to the thirteenth temple about a year ago, but I’ve been serving a long time and I can recite the stories of all Thousand Gods, including the fallen gods.”
“The fallen gods?”
“Ronerus’s offspring are always fluid. They’re tricksters. They like disguises and tend to get in trouble with each other.”
“It’s an awful lot of gods to know and a lot of hours spent learning them.”
“My mother gave me to the temples when I was but an infant.”
“She must have been very devoted.”
“Devoted?” The man laughed. “More like shrewd. I wasn’t her husband’s son, you see, and the bastard son of a highborn lady had no place among the hordes of highborn-bred children peopling her ruling house.”
“You speak so freely of what others may find shameful.”
“I cling to no one’s shame,” he said. “My mother could have kept me around for a marriage alliance, but I got further damaged by the pox. She figured she’d get no income or grandchildren from a scarred son, since no woman would want me.”
“A woman who chooses a man only for his appearance is a fool.”
“You’re very wise, but I’ve made peace with my fate,” he said, smiling. “Vestor the half-holy, they call me around here. I think I’m lucky. I’ve got enough highborn blood in me to worship Onisious and join the temples, but it’s Ronerus’s blood that allows me to serve his healing son, Greada, who has given me my life’s calling.”
Lusielle had to admire her new friend. He was as free with his smile as he was open about his story and, just as she hoped to do, he had turned misfortune into opportunity, making himself indispensable to the temples.
“I wager you’re mor
e pious than the Pious,” she said.
“You speak your mind,” Vestor said. “I like that. But beware: Truth can be dangerous in the temples. Ah, here we are.”
They entered a small store built into the middle wall, a covered stand arranged like a balcony to service the worshippers crowding the courtyard below along with many other different types of stores. From food to relics, the Ascended sold all kinds of goods to the eager worshippers and made good money doing it.
Lusielle greeted the young Ascended attending the ingredient shop. The rich blend of smells welcoming her was familiar to her nose. The fragrance of a hundred different kinds of minerals, herbs, plants, roots and spices wafted from small casks, little jars and tiny sacks, and combined with the aroma of the roots, dry leaves and flowers hanging from the rafters. It was her life’s perfume, returned to stir the memories she had fought hard to suppress.
“Pick what you will,” Vestor said. “The Pious is buying.”
Lusielle accepted a basket and rummaged through the stand, choosing everything she might conceivably need and a few other items she wanted to have at hand. She couldn’t help but notice that some of the small casks were marked with Aponte’s merchant seal. The world had turned big and small at the same time.
A customer knocked on the shop’s counter. The young Ascended offered his help, but the woman’s attention was diverted as soon as she spotted Lusielle. “There you are!” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Lusielle recognized Nelia, the woman she had met earlier outside the temple’s walls, the one with the sharp tongue and the infected eye.
“They’ve got everything we need here,” Nelia said. “You said you’d make me a cleansing potion if I got the ingredients.”
“Perhaps later,” Lusielle said.
“Later when?”
Lusielle deferred to Vestor. “She’s too busy to—”
“Is there disease among the pure?” The woman sniffed the air, as if testing for just such a thing. “Are you keeping her services to yourselves?”